


no strain at the seams

by randomicicle



Category: Jpop, KAT-TUN (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:35:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomicicle/pseuds/randomicicle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Koki likes Kame’s MAQUIA essays, but this one <i>hurts</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no strain at the seams

**Author's Note:**

> **Written for** : [Sara](http://scorch66.livejournal.com/), @ [FTF Exchange 2012](http://fic-the-faith.livejournal.com/25374.html) (originally posted [here](http://fic-the-faith.livejournal.com/24675.html))

Kame looks up, and raises an inquisitive eyebrow when there’s a colorful travel brochure shoved at his face, planes and buildings outlined on shiny laminated paper with sharp prices scrawled over them.

“London,” Koki says, and Kame keeps looking at him with confused disbelief, somehow sharper than before. Koki tries a grin, but it comes out a tiny bit nervous; he feels it wavering at the edges. “I’ve booked us a vacation, we can-”

“You haven’t,” Kame interrupts, narrowing his eyes. It sounds more like a threat.

Koki sighs. He slumps down on the couch, and expects the concerned look, the way Kame softly closes the brochure and places it on Koki’s lap, lets his hand land on his thigh, open and kind, waiting for Koki to elaborate.

He has nothing to say. Except that he hasn’t really booked them any vacation.

Kame laughs. “Good. Last time you cancelled at the last minute,” he reminds him, a bit of amusement threading through that statement. Koki looks up, feels a flush of embarrassment crawl up from under the collar of his shirt, but Kame is smiling as he looks for something inside his bag, laughing to himself and shaking his head. “ _Then_ you set your pants on fire.”

Koki snorts, and Kame smirks, giving him a brief smile. The travel brochure hits the bottom of the paper bin, and Kame says he has to rush out; he has dinner reservations with Kitamura-san tonight.

The fading steps in the hallway feel heavier inside Koki’s chest.

 

 

*

 

 

The truth is, there has always been a barrier between his public and private life, and Kame tends to clam up whenever someone brings it up. As time passed, he found new and subtler ways to avoid giving it away, mastered the art of dropping carefully placed words with images that were generic enough to make everyone happy and conceal details or names or _real_ information at the same time. Kame’s friends were always a foggy bunch of faceless people, his family a gentle smiling portrait of strangers.

He thinks about back then sometimes and wonders when exactly Kame started to get along with everyone. Koki remembers him being a tiny boy that was a little too pushy, a show off with a bossy attitude and a face that looked ridiculously out of place in the sea of clean-cut cute juniors. He remembers him handling the one on one conversations better than group chats, remembers him being the odd man out sometimes and the one pulling them all ahead on some others. He remembers walking in on Kame sitting alone several times, _too_ many times, and the quiet calmness on his eyes as the baseball bumped against the wall and bounced back to his hand in a steady rhythm.

Koki wonders when Kame decided he would have no friends in this world, _their_ world, and if it was before or after Koki pursued this –apparently- one-sided friendship with him. It had hurt, to read those words, written with an eloquence Kame would trick others into believing he didn’t have, just like he liked hiding his involvement with his own lyrics just because.

His friends were like family, Kame had said. And Koki wants to ask him what was _he_ then, and why he feels a pang of jealousy whenever Kame mentions dinner with Nishioka-san at his parents’ house, or karaoke with Fukuyama-san or those recent afternoons filled with golf he spends with Anne-san and her dad. Koki wants to be part of those too.

He fears he may never be able to.

It hurts the most that he believed he was already part of them.

 

 

*

 

 

The first time it happens, it is Jin who calls. Then, Yamapi. After him come a series of strangers that range from some middle-aged businessman to the bartender of a sketchy bar. He stares at the other man, vaguely remembering him from the news, and placing him at a pitch inside a baseball stadium. That makes sense in Koki’s mind.

“I would’ve taken him home, but…” he mumbles, and Koki angles Kame so he doesn’t bump his head against the car.

Kame lolls his head to his side, eyes half-open just as Koki stops at a red light. “Koki,” he mumbles, smiles a little, and squirms in his seat with a sigh. Koki laughs, squeezes his knee, and drives him home.

This time though, no one is calling Koki. Koki is sitting right there, beside Kame, and there’s laughter in the crook of his neck because Kame is one step from becoming a kissing monster. Koki snickers, and Nakamaru dozes off on the other side of the table. Their glasses are empty and scattered, and Koki doesn’t realize its Kame pushing him off his seat until those fingers dig too hard into his ribs.

“Bathroom,” Kame scowls, and his hand is so tightly wrapped around his wrist that Koki can only stumble behind him, steadying Kame when he almost walks against the doorframe, and joining the low giggles that escape his throat.

When Kame doesn’t let him go, he asks, “Do I have to, you know-?”

Kame frowns deeper, and tugs on his hand, their fingers now impossible to untangle. Koki sighs. And decides the whole situation is too hilarious not to be shared publicly.

 

 

*

 

 

In 2006, Dream Boys was excitedly insane. In 2011, it is familiarly chaotic. Kame drinks tons of tea that make him look like a zombie, and Koki finds his stomach tied in tight knots during their acrobatic’ practice times. Nakamaru’s discussions vary between lengthy and absolute silence, and they’re all too exhausted from joy and physical exertion.

Kame touches the inside of his wrist when Nakamaru falls asleep on top of his large book, his highlighter threatening to leave a neon yellow line on his cheek, and Koki follows him. He scurries after Kame down the hallway and a flight of stairs, walks through a basement-like area that seems lifeless and dull, sterile blank walls with equally dull cream white doors. Kame carries a box wrapped in brown paper, with a golden bow on top, and Koki wants to laugh.

The old lady that greets them gasps in recognition, and Kame grins broad and bright, bowing and stimulating her memory with names and brief descriptions of who he is and why exactly he is there. She’s short and chubby, with tiny glasses and greying hair; the perfect image of maternal gentleness in her soft smile and narrow eyes. Koki bows when she turns to him, the box now sitting on the table inside the tiny room now.

“You should’ve brought your friend over back then, Kazuya-kun,” she scolds him with that wavering voice of the elderly, and Kame chuckles, shuffles on his feet as she unwraps the box.

Kame’s eyes have that special shine they get when he’s giving things away, anticipating their reaction and sighing in relief when the receiver utters the simplest words of gratitude. It’s a look that warms Koki from the inside.

He turns to Koki with those eyes, bright and excited and he’s almost bouncing in place, hands low on his back pockets. “We weren’t that close back then,” he tells her, and Koki wants to ask exactly how close they are now, or if they are close at all, but the paper is on the floor and the old lady is having a fit of joy. Kame’s grin explodes and the tiny room is filled with the smell of coffee and a mellow atmosphere Koki doesn’t, _can’t_ , break.

Nakamaru scowls when they come back and Kame tells him he lost a chance to time travel (and a cup of great coffee) by falling asleep.

 

 

*

 

 

Kame clams up inside his metaphorical shell and Koki drags him out after filming, ignoring his excuses and deathly glares. They’ve never been the kind of friends that share every single detail of their lives, or have deep long conversations loaded with emotional and private details. Recently, Koki doesn’t even know what kind of friends they are, or if they’re friends at all, but he pushes that to the back of his mind because he can do this one thing now, and he will. He remembers how Kame had only frowned a little when the AV actress affair flooded the tabloids, and said nothing when his own scandal exploded like a volcano. It was a truce, and they’ve learned to share the silence in peace, filling the void with harmless chitchat.

Koki can give him _that_ , whatever else it is he has on his mind.

He asks for more sake, lets Kame slouch in the chair and twirl his glass with a bitter smile of resignation.

“I wish I had every answer,” Kame mutters. And that is the one and only deep talk they ever have.

 

 

*

 

 

Koki changes his hairstyle thousands of times, and sometimes thinks back on that red mohawk and wonders whether he should go back to it or not, and how great it looked despite the hard work it entailed. When he voices it out loud, Kame shrugs his shoulders.

"Maybe I should trim mine a little, it's too long already," and Koki gapes, aghast. Kame laughs.

"What did they do to you?" Koki asks as he collects his things, Kame's hair flat and tied in a ponytail, the chocolate brown color now familiar after several months of being present.

"I grew up?" Kame replies, but Koki notices how he still stops and checks his hair in the mirror, because he may not care but he is still vain. They all are; they have to be. "Maybe I’ll dye it?"

It's good enough, even if Kame laughs him off when he offers going blond together.

He pokes the pictures in the genkan, waiting for Kame to push all the right buttons of his house alarm, and almost breaks a pair of sunglasses when he moves the frames to see them better. Kame is the type to talk about having kids, and never about getting married. It makes Koki wonder.

As Kame drives up the street, he almost wants to apologize for asking if he could drop him at Shibuya. They both look surprisingly simple that day; khakis, plain shirts. Not even sunglasses on, and Kame is only wearing that ring on his pinky he’s taken to lately.

“I don’t want to get married,” Kame replies when Koki muses out loud, and Koki nods because he knows. He doesn’t either, even if he had someone he’d consider. “But my niece was over yesterday…” and Kame dissolves in smiles and praises and stories that are cute even for Koki.

He wonders when they turned into middle-aged kid-deprived women.

“Ah, I want children too. Tons of them,” Koki agrees, cheerfully, and they’re almost there, one corner away from stepping out of Kame’s car and the comfortable atmosphere that hide-and-seek stories generate, especially when they involve embarrassing explanations and dressing up with feathered boas.

Kame is grinning. “Me too. I’d go to all the sports’ days,” he continues, and the car stops slowly as he looks out at the big building that is Koki’s destination. “Even if they aren’t my kids, I’d just go. To relays and such.”

He laughs, and Kame punches him but he’s also laughing; he probably thinks it’s perfectly normal.

Koki decides then Kame will be a very obnoxious, highly insane and shamelessly KY soccer mom.

It is endearing somehow.

 

 

*

 

 

“You should put that away,” Koki murmurs, and Kame pouts slightly, but puts his camera away anyway. “How many different angles of a tree can you get,” Koki huffs, but he isn’t really as annoyed as he sounds, and Kame knows it.

They sit on a bench nearby. It’s noon, and they only left rehearsal to get some drinks, but the moment Kame took his whole bag instead of his wallet alone, Koki knew he was allowing himself a real break.

“Fukuyama-san visited me yesterday,” he starts, and Koki pretends it doesn’t rub salt on the wound he keeps hidden. He nods, and plays with the seam of his shirt. Kame is fighting against his can of cold tea as he speaks. “We were talking about girls. Dating and stuff,” Kame sighs, hands his tea to Koki and he snickers before opening it for him. “I wonder if I should play the dating game better.”

He wonders too, but is no expert on the subject. Kame is straightforward, and doesn’t treat girls like they expect to be treated; he isn’t prince charming. And yet, he is the kind of guy who’d go out of his way to surprise her on a simple day, who’d ask her if she’s more comfortable with the lights off. He’s both the girliest and the manliest out of them, like one could turn a switch between all his personas and find they are, somehow, one mass of coherent unity in the end.

Koki clears his throat. “Is your mind set on someone?”

The choking is surprising, and Koki jumps before he laughs. Kame glares at him, but has a slight flush of pink on his cheekbones.

Koki smirks lopsidedly, a finger shoved in Kame’s face. “It’s Anne-san, isn’t it?” he asks, lecherously, and Kame snorts as he checks he didn’t spill any tea on himself. “It’s the supermarket dates… the shared onion obsession.”

Kame looks at him, startled, before he cracks up, and Koki grins, chuckles along, and enjoys the tiny tears on the corners of Kame’s eyes.

He teases him about having this crush, and Kame only laughs all his theories off. “I may,” Kame admits later, as they make their way back, and Koki pumps his fist in the air. “But I don’t,” he adds, preens, but still rambles on about how awesome she is and what a large vocabulary she has and ‘ _did you know she also plays baseball?_ ’ until Koki can only hear Anne-Anne-Anne with static and blurred words in between.

He’s smirking when they arrive at the rehearsal room. “Thank god you _don’t_ have a crush,” Koki mutters, and Kame can’t punch him because Ueda jumps between them and starts digging in their doggy bags.

 

 

*

 

 

By the time Koki arrives, Kame has two juniors in his dining room, and he is chatting with them as he moves swiftly around in the kitchen.

“ _Ohayoukai!_ ” he calls from the kitchen, and Koki turns to the juniors, who look at him with resigned smiles that tell him they also had to give in earlier.

“Ohayoukai…” he mumbles as he enters the kitchen, and Kame grins brightly. It makes Koki think he only insists in this because he enjoys embarrassing everyone around him, but they indulge him anyway (and how could they not, especially at his house).

Koki tries to help him out with dinner, grabs the salt that turns out to be something else and puts black pepper in some vegetables, which sends Kame in a frenzy and freezes him with the youkai beam before throwing him out of his kitchen.

They have dinner though, and it’s great. Kame teases the juniors, whose names escape Koki at the moment but he’s sure they were at Dream Boys, and they leave with bags full of clothes that were most definitely in boxes in Kame’s storage earlier.

Koki throws himself onto the largest sofa, puts his feet on top of the low center table, and Kame only frowns a little before bringing a couple of beers and throwing one on his lap. Kame tells him he sent drawings to America earlier that day. “For Fuku-chan,” he explains at Koki’s confused face. “He saw our show and wanted to make youkai plushies.”

He smiles, and Koki entertains the idea of Kame and Fuku playing baseball, Kame’s large baseball cap on the little kid’s head, and how Kame wouldn’t go easy on him even if he was half his age.

“Did you draw them?”

Kame glares, but his smile underneath is undeniably amused.

As they sit there, sipping their beer and watching the TV lazily, Koki wonders how long it was since they had time to hang out. He also wonders if Kame hangs out a lot, or if he does so eventually with everyone he knows. Koki still sends him pictures of his silver haired self as he finds them in the city, texts whenever he passes by a store with Aoki’s 3D slim suits.

They talk quietly, furtive glances and shared anecdotes going back and forth, and it’s comfortable. Even inside jokes, they have them, and despite the fact Kame doesn't hang out very much with him or the other members even now, Koki still gets the rare text message or the occasional invitation that tells him he isn't just a coworker. None of them are.

Sometimes he still wonders. Recently, he’s been wondering the most.

Kame laughs, his phone guilty of quieting down a previously animated anecdote. "Nakamaru,” he explains. “He keeps asking me why I get mad when he refers to me as Kamenashi," Kame adds, and turns to Koki as he flips his phone shut.

Koki shakes his head, chuckles. "You shouldn't tease him so much, he worries."

"It's _Nakamaru._ "

“He doesn’t wear argyle anymore, Kame,” Koki reminds him, and Kame looks a bit guilty then. Only a bit, before he breaks into a shameful little smile.

“Nakamaru,” he says over the phone, and Koki falls back on his side of the sofa, observing his profile, his long brown hair curling just below his jaw. He said he’d trim it, and yet it looks wilder and longer than it’s been in a long time. Kame’s shoulders shake, and his voice changes; it’s sincere and soothing, and ridiculously amused. Nakamaru won’t be convinced. “No, seriously. I’m _not_ upset about it.”

Koki wonders how long this joke has been going on and how far Kame has taken it before his intervention.

He also knows Nakamaru will get over it.

 

 

*

 

 

“KAME, IT’S JUST A GAME.”

“ _JUST_ A GAME?”

Nakamaru sighs and Koki pats his back. He had been there, because Koki had also tried, really tried, to beat Kame’s competitive mood, but he always ends up getting out of the bath first because Kame sinks lower into the water and smirks smugly when Koki’s skin begins to tingle from the heat. Kame complains his brothers have stopped going with him, or abandoning him to soak alone, but Koki gets them. It’s like Nakamaru will soon stop asking him to play with them, or will burn all the copies of Powerful Pro Yakyuu within reach.

Kame is clawing at the controller so hard he doesn’t notice their forlorn faces, and Nakamaru turns to Koki with _that_ face. They need an intervention.

They take it to national TV.

Next time, Kame agrees on a soccer game. For a while. Even if later he is once again beating their asses with the third home run in a row.

 

 

*

 

 

They played friends in Tatta Hitotsu no Koi, before they were anywhere near those terms. Slowly, they stopped relying on the cameras rolling to stay in character, until it was so natural to be Hiroto and Kazu as Kame and Koki. Somewhere along the way, when Jin wasn't such a strong presence by Kame's side, and Koki stopped hating them all just out of principles he didn't even remember, they really clicked.

Koki also started worrying about him during that time, about Kame taking care of himself. Baths before concerts were normal, and Koki became familiar with his scrawny frame, his bony torso, and looking at his broad shoulders now gives him a special type of satisfaction.

He remembers smoking on the dock, the sound of cameras moving behind them as ADs carried things out and away. Koki had sneaked beside him, asked him why he hadn’t fled already to his next appointment. Kame’s sigh was heavy; his hands slow as he lit up another cigarette.

“I’m done,” he’d muttered, and Koki couldn’t tell whether or not he was talking about his day or something different altogether. “I’m _tired_.”

Koki is now flipping through the TV channels and Kame’s face catches his attention. He’s lying on the grass, sweaty and apparently exhausted; he rolls to his side, stands up slowly. His panting is loud and choked, but his smile is large and bright, and he laughs when some pro pats his back. He wonders if Kame is happy with that play pretend, if he would’ve been happier with what could have been rather than with what it is, trading sequins for baseballs and mics for bats.

_“I found Kame”_ , he texts. Next morning, he gets tons of winking emojis and baseball bats.

Kame is different around them, has all this history and conflict and things Koki doesn't totally understand. Koki wishes their history didn’t hurt sometimes, wishes they haven’t given up so much.

“There are happier stories,” Kame mumbles one day, baseball hitting the other side of the batting place with a loud echo. He smiles at him above his shoulder. “KAT-TUN’s is,” he yells above the sound of leather against wood, and the wound inside his chest stops aching so much, Kame’s reassurance working like soothing balm.

 

 

*

 

 

Koki sits there for a while, glancing at the clock and listening to Maru discuss with Junno the survival game role division, wondering if he really wants to compromise to the level Nakamaru seems to expect them to. Kame listens to him later, and cracks a smile as he opens the dark navy polish. He denies it has microglitter, but Koki knows better.

“Maybe I should shave, like Ueda,” Kame comments, and drops his right leg on Koki’s lap. Koki snorts, tells him only _some_ can pull off the baldness. Kame shoves his feet in his face.

Kame sighs, relaxing when Koki starts on his nails. He knows Kame loves getting special treatment; knows Kame wouldn’t ask someone like Nishioka-san to paint his toenails. It ignites a tiny glowing ball of pride and jealousy, like he wants to keep this Kame for himself and lock it inside these four walls, doing their nails all the time.

He obviously never voices these thoughts out loud.

“My brother asked me for autographs,” Kame mutters, and cracks an eye open. “He gave me some concert tickets in return.”

Koki nods. “Getting paid for favors, what have you become,” Koki teases, and Kame laughs. It’s clear and relaxed, and Koki feels the tension in his own shoulders dissolving. Kame is chewing the tip of his bottle, and his eyes are somewhat intense, out of place in the coziness that settles when Koki moves on to his other foot.

“Thought you may want to come?”

Koki fumbles. Kame laughs, and there’s a string of dark navy blue microglitter glowing from his nail and over the skin of his big toe. But he keeps the grin on his face, and asks Koki again, tells him it’d be fun, and that he has no idea what the concert is about so Koki doesn’t have to know either. It’ll be late, and they have that night off, he has checked.

“It’s also near Shin-kiba,” Kame adds. His hair is still damp around his face, and it curls in a shaggy mop of dark brown. He bites his lip and wiggles his toes; all ten shine softly under the lights of his living room and Kame scowls a little at the glittery effect. He sighs. “Remember that cheap ramen shop?” he continues, glittery toes forgotten, and Koki remembers it clearly, younger versions of themselves huddled over large bowls of ramen, Kame still as thin as a toothpick and himself wearing a permanent scowl and intimidating face that fooled more people than it did nowadays.

“I remember,” he replies, and Kame smiles before pulling Koki’s leg up, dragging him to glitter land.

 

 

*

 

 

“Momo-chan will be fine,” Kame whispers, his hand on his shoulder warm and reassuring, more than the mechanical voice of the nurse that came out earlier with a pad and a blue pen that wouldn’t stop scribbling on the paper. Koki sips the coffee he hands him, and Kame grabs a magazine.

He clears his throat. “Thank you for bringing us, but you don’t have to stay.”

Kame frowns at him, and snorts. He doesn’t even check the clock on the wall.

It’s not long until Momo-chan is back in Koki’s arms, together with the longest list of meds and instructions, but it’s past midnight when Kame drops them at his apartment. Koki feels indebted, and the tiredness outlined underneath Kame’s eyes is only part of it. “Thank you,” he mutters as he wraps Momo-chan closer to himself; he tries to sound as serious and sincere as he feels. He isn’t sure he manages.

Kame smiles with a slight nod. The engine roars to life quietly in the middle of the night.

“See you at work,” he replies, and drives off.

Koki stays awake for long hours after that, Momo-chan curled on his chest as he pets her behind her ears, and wonders if Kame knew Koki was the one calling when he did.

 

 

*

 

 

Maru is silent, engrossed in some heavy book on top of the table, so when Koki comes, he falls asleep to the quiet company of the other and the lack of sleep he had the previous night. He wakes up to Kame laughing hushedly and to a grin that broadens when he notices Koki’s eyes are open.

"Lunch?"

 

 

*

 

 

“… and that’s how I got it, can’t get rid of it,” Kame finishes, and Ueda looks confused, but doesn’t ask because he looks like he’d rather be playing the Iriguchi Deguchi Taguchi game than listen to Kame’s overly detailed explanation again. Koki chuckles, tugs his pants up when the way Kame is leaning against the side of his leg tugs them down. Maru yawns, and there’s the small commotion caused by wrap-ups and empty dishes telling them that lunch was long over and they were talking (or listening to Kame talk) for a long time already.

Junno stretches, mumbles, “I like this… knowing more about you, guys,” like he hasn’t said that before.

Everyone snorts, and Koki pokes Junno with his foot. But Kame looks at him, asks “Why?” and when Junno shrugs and says it’s because they’re _friends_ , he gets snorts in the form of fluffy cushions thrown his way.

“Friends, huh,” Kame asks, a threatening red cushion in his hands, and he stands next to Koki, warm and solid and looking just a tiny bit demented. Koki grins, gives them the thumbs up, and Junno shrieks when Ueda joins Kame and they manage to, successfully, tackle him. Nakamaru sighs, and apologizes to the waiter, who looks appalled and jumps when Junno tries to kick Ueda and manages to hit the table and send a couple of teacups to the floor.

Koki enjoys these moments more than he should, and only laughs when Ueda and Kame drag Nakamaru to the pile of limbs with Junno’s help, whom has apparently forgotten he was the victim to begin with.

 

 

*

 

 

Koki puts away the shamisen, flexing his fingers and laying back, the couch soft against his back. He thinks of them rehearsing, how he’d listened to Kame practicing his solo, and had to discreetly slip away before it ended. He could see Kame, pen and paper in hand, his guitar beside him being caressed from time to time, and Koki won’t ever admit that it’s the type of song he prefers for him. He never tells Kame he has _Ai ni tsuite_ on his iPod, or to include _Aishiteru Kara_ on an album.

They don’t talk about these things.

He sighs, and gets himself a glass of water. He texted Kame earlier, wondering if maybe he was nearby for lunch, but the other had swiftly said he was shopping with Tsuyoshi. Of all the things, Koki should’ve expected it. They spent an awful lot of time together lately; Kame said he was trying to help him pick up the pieces. Koki hadn’t heard from him about the divorce, but it had apparently been in the papers.

His doorbell rings. Koki is positive he isn’t expecting anyone, but Rai-chan and Saku-chan run to the genkan and paw at the door, and he has to hush them away to see through the peephole. Kame’s enlarged face on the other side grins and waves.

“How long have you been waving?” he asks as he opens the door.

Kame grins, pushes him as he makes his way inside. “Since I heard these two,” he answers, laughing a little, and crouching beside them as he holds a large covered package up and away from them. Koki takes it from him, lets him take off his shoes, and then asks.

Kame laughs. “Don’t act so surprised,” and his voice gives away that he doesn’t mean it, because Kame doesn’t just drop by, or hasn’t done so in ages. Koki wants to ask about Nishioka-san, but doesn’t. He doesn’t want to know he’s maybe downstairs, waiting, and Kame has only dropped by to remind Koki of something work related.

“It’s been a while, but,” Kame starts, setting the large package on his kitchen counter and looking back at him with a sheepish grin. “A couple of years ago, I said I wanted to give you a bird as a present. With all your pets, I wasn’t sure it was safe, but they say it’s fine as long as you keep an eye on Pi-chan.”

Koki coos at the two tiny birds that look up at him, and Kame looks smugly satisfied, that bright tingle in his eyes back there, and Koki wants to laugh but is too excited about his new kids to do so. He opens the little door and they are immediately on him, one biting his ear, the other nesting on his head, and only then, Koki laughs. Kame grabs the naughtiest one, kisses her lightly. “This one is a girl,” he whispers, and Koki smiles and thinks of names that make Kame laugh some more, and never really settle on anything.

“So… I have to go,” Kame says after a while, but doesn’t move, and only stares at Koki bonding with his new pets. “How is Momo-chan, by the way?”

“Better, much better,” Koki replies, finally turning to him. Kame is perched on the edge of the sofa, elbows on knees, and it’s funny looking at him from his spot on the floor. “Thank you for the other night.”

Kame’s smile is slow; it starts in his eyes and doesn’t quite curl up his lips, but it glows under the surface and Koki can feel it. It tingles, titillates, and reaches out to undo the knot that’s been weighing on Koki’s chest.

Koki nods, and Kame pets both lovebirds before standing up. Koki spots it then, under his table; it’s marked on that picture of Anne-san and Fuku-chan, and Koki laughs to himself. He pushes it to the lowest part of the pile.

“That’s what friends are for, Koki,” Kame scolds him, but there is an almost alien gentleness in his voice, and Koki smiles instantly.

He wants to say they aren’t friends, not really; nor are they family, or lovers, or coworkers. That they’re just some weird hybrid called _members_ and that it’s as real and special as all the others. He wants to say that, but Kame smiles, and he probably knew it before Koki did.

“See you at work?”

Koki nods. And Kame waves at him as he slowly closes the door.

When he sits down to write, the two lovebirds start chirping. Koki smiles, and decides he can fill in those idol magazine questionnaires later.

 

 

>   
> _“They aren’t friends, or family, or work colleagues, or lovers… really, it’s a real bond called “members”. If someone was lacking, I think I couldn’t work; if there isn’t KAT-TUN it’s impossible for me.”_ – Koki, Wink Up 2012

 

 

  
**Fin**   


  



End file.
